There Was A Little Girl
by Quilliae
Summary: Her name was Natalia Alianovna Romanova. She isn't that little girl with pigtails anymore. That girl had died; perhaps a little more each time another body dropped dead, each time another drop of blood tainted her crimson ledger. Her name is Natasha Romanoff, and that might be the only thing she knows for sure.
1. Prologue

"If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be." - Evelyn Waugh

* * *

**There Was A Little Girl, Prologue**

_There was a little girl  
__Who had a little curl  
__Right in the middle of her forehead  
__And when she was good  
__She was very, very good  
__But when she was bad  
__She was homicidal_

_- Time For Tea, Emilie Autumn_

There are few things in her life that she can be sure of, few enough for her to be able to count on just one of her tainted hands.

Her name is Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.

If you asked her, that's all that she would tell you. Well… actually depending on who you are to her, she might not even answer. And if you even somehow manage to obtain her file and read it, that wasn't all there was to her. If you, with a sudden unfortunate boost of courage, asked her about it again, she'd probably cast you a look that'd make you revaluate all of your life choices. You don't just walk up to her and question her name. Who do you think you are?

Her name is Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.

If she asked herself, that may be all that she would be able to tell herself, or let herself admit.

Her name is Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.

It is a name without a past; it is a name to mask _her_ past. From who? She isn't quite sure. She thinks it may be from herself.

It wasn't always that way.

Sometimes, she wishes it never had to be.

She wonders what it would have been like if she had held on to her past a little more.

It was a past named Natalia Alianovna Romanova.

She shudders when she thinks about that possibility. It is better this way, she concludes. Things haven't had to go the way they had, but it is better this way.

Her name is Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.

And that is all that matters, although it slips her mind every now and then. She has to remind herself during those moments, that while she is no longer the little girl with the pigtails and yellow ribbons, she isn't the girl without a soul anymore as well. Perhaps that soulless being wasn't even a girl.

A killer.

That was in the past, she would like to think, but sometimes she isn't sure, so she clings on to what she knows to be the truth.

_My name is Natasha. Natasha Romanoff. _

**name**_ (noun)_: A word or set of words by which a person or a thing is known, addressed, or referred to.

It is good enough for her, for now.

* * *

**Note- **

Yes, by all events I do mean all of the following: her childhood, her time in the Red Room, Drakov's daughter, São Paulo, the hospital fire, her meeting with Clint which led to her deflecting to S.H.I.E.L.D., and also Budapest, although I'm not sure if my writing style at some parts will allow me to go into specifics too much. Sorry in advance for the mixture of tenses cos I might get too confused at a few points.

They're mostly written like flashbacks and memories, so I decided not to use "quotation marks" for dialogue, and use _italics_ instead so it might get a little confusing at times about who's speaking or who's thinking and stuff like that so... oops?

Oh yeah and by the way, I'm drawing tons of parallels between Natasha's life and so many Emilie Autumn's songs, so that would explain the use of her song lyrics at the start of every chapter.

And since I'm also a huge fan of Vampire Diaries as well so kudos to you if you happen to spot any lines from the show that I shamelessly stole.

Okay I'm finally done. Enjoy and thanks for reading! ^^

P.s. Just to let you guys know, I completed the entire story before uploading it so yeah.


	2. Chapter 1 - She Had A Name

Summary

Her name was Natalia Alianovna Romanova. She isn't that little girl with pigtails anymore. That girl had died; perhaps a little more each time another body dropped dead, each time another drop of blood tainted her crimson ledger. Her name is Natasha Romanoff, and that might be the only thing she knows for sure. (All events included)

* * *

**There Was A Little Girl, Chapter 1- She Had A Name (Pre Red Room Childhood)**

_My reasons to live  
Were my reasons to die  
But at least they were mine_

_- 306, Emilie Autumn_

She remembers the first time she learned to say her entire name perfectly, and then write it down.

Papa and Mama had been as patient with her as they always had, even though she, being only a little over two, just couldn't seem to get her tongue to curl around her words just as perfectly as Papa could, or finish writing her name with the same distinct yet beautiful flourish in Mama's writing. Finally, she'd managed to accomplish both feats with ease and when she did, she'd squealed with ecstasy with a bright smile stretching across her face, not unlike the ones on Papa and Mama's faces that mirrored her joy.

They'd taken her out for ice-cream after that, even though it wasn't exactly what her parents could afford every other day, but they'd insisted that her learning how to say and write her name flawlessly at her young age was something worth celebrating.

Halfway through her very own cone of classic vanilla ice-cream, she'd decided that it was the best day of her life and that it was a day that she would remember for the rest of her life.

Looking back now, she realizes that she's glad that she still does. Or rather, she's glad that she has been allowed to keep that memory, that the Red Room hadn't taken it away from her.

She always remembered how to say and write her name after that day.

_Natalia Alianovna Romanova. My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova._

* * *

She remembers the first time she went to school.

She was three by then and her parents had just enrolled her at a kindergarten located within their neighborhood.

It had been raining earlier in the morning, and by the time Papa and Mama left her in the care of the educators at the kindergarten, there was a rainbow stretching beautifully across the sky. She had been thoroughly nervous, but the sight of the beautiful rainbow had managed to calm her nerves slightly as she came to stand at the front of the classroom before her peers to introduce herself. Her voice quivered as she shifted awkwardly from one foot to another.

_My name is Natalia. Natalia Alianovna Romanova_.

Then she smiled, hearing herself speak with the exact same accent of Papa and Mama's which she had always envied. It reminded her of the day she learned how to do that; the best day of her life thus far.

And if her teacher wasn't already impressed by her ability to introduce herself with the perfect pronunciation and accent, he surely was when he saw her writing her name down in an impeccable handwriting that could not have belonged to the three-year-old girl that was Natalia Alianovna Romanova.

* * *

She remembers her fifth birthday, although... she doesn't remember that date as her birthday, or that particular day as her fifth.

No, it was something else entirely.

She had gone to the kindergarten as usual, after Mama had specially woven her flaming red hair into braided pigtails and then secured them with glossy yellow ribbons. The only thing out of the ordinary was the slight spring in her step and the twinkle in her eye after Papa and Mama promised that she'd have a cake baked for her by the time she was back, and a mood so good that not even the nasty boys calling her pigtails "girly" could ruin.

That was until she got called out of art class fifteen minutes into the lesson and was shown into the main office.

A man in uniform was there to pick her up. He said that she needed to go immediately, and so she followed.

The ride with the strange uniformed man was silent. He did not explain a thing, and she dared not to ask. She wasn't sure if it was because she was afraid of the strange man, or if she was afraid of what would be his answer.

She realized that it was the latter when the vehicle rolled to a stop before her home after a few minutes.

At least that's where she guessed she was.

The tiny and run down house which she had dearly and very gladly called her home was entirely blackened, with half the walls left as piles of charred debris on the ground. The only thing left standing with which she was able to confirm that it was indeed her home was the wooden swing painted white and dotted with red flowers in their front yard, quite a safe distance away from the ruined house. The one Papa had built for her just a few weeks ago; the one Mama had painted with her, teaching her how to dot the flowers at just the perfect angle.

All she could feel was silence.

The fire men were shouting orders at one another, some packing their equipment and some picking through the debris to ensure that the fire was entirely extinguished.

There were uniformed men standing around, pointing around at the blackened mass that was her home, seemingly trying to put together what had happened.

There were paramedics at the site, ensuring that no one was hurt.

Except there _was_ someone who was hurt.

_She _was hurt. She was scared, afraid, and confused. And despite the hustle and bustle of the adults around her doing their job like as if it was just another day, which it was for them, all she could feel was silence.

_Papa? Mama? _She called out, her small voice cracking at the end.

There was no Papa or Mama around who heard her cries.

_Papa? Mama? _She tried again, louder. Maybe they were here somewhere, maybe they were trying to find her.

There was no Papa or Mama there who came rushing towards her.

_Papa? Mama? _Maybe this was just a dream, a nightmare. If she called loud enough, they'd run into her room and shake her awake and end it all, right?

There was no Papa or Mama who would hold her in their arms and tell her that everything would be fine.

_PAPA! MAMA! _She was screaming by then.

There was no Papa or Mama, at all.

The adults looked at her with pitying faces. Why were they looking at her like that? What's going on? What's happening? Where's Papa and Mama?

Yet another uniformed man walks to her and crouches down. He tries to tell her gently that the house has been burned down; there was a fire that started in the kitchen. He doesn't yet bring up the issue of where Papa and Mama were, but it doesn't matter. She has already stopped listening to the man who wouldn't tell her the truth. The truth that her parents had died while baking her birthday cake. She was only five, but she definitely wasn't stupid. That must have been what had happened.

She had killed her parents.

That was when she spotted the two covered gurneys about to be pushed away.

_Papa, Mama! _She knew now, they wouldn't be coming, not now, not ever, but that didn't stop her from screaming her lungs out anyway.

She sprinted towards the gurneys, tiny hands reaching for the covers, needing to see Papa and Mama again, but she was pulled away at the last second by the paramedics.

The uniformed man approached her again and attempted to calm her down.

It wasn't before her voice turned hoarse that she eventually just shook in silent sobs.

The fire truck had left.

The police men had left.

The paramedics had left.

And along with them all, her parents too. Her parents were gone.

She was left with yet another strange man in a strange uniform.

But he wasn't like the others. His uniform was different. The way he looked at her was different.

The others looked at her like a fragile sheet of thin glass, ready to break any second. And maybe she was.

But this man did not. He waited for her sobs to quiet down, he comforted her with the right words and soothing sounds, but he looked at her like she was just a silly child, only capable of crying. She could see it in his cold steely gaze.

And so eventually she stopped, merely hiccupping occasionally. She was determined to not be viewed as just another silly child. She had to be strong. Maybe then she could repent for causing her parents' death.

The man handed her a photo and a necklace, and told her with a kind smile that did not reach his eyes that it was what they had managed to save.

She recognized them.

The necklace was Mama's, a chain with an elegant engagement ring hung on it. It was lovely and had an intricately cut sapphire set in it. It was definitely something they would not have been able to afford if it hadn't been an heirloom passed through Papa's family. Mama had refused to have it on her finger while she did the housework, worrying that she would damage it, hence the chain around her neck.

In the photo, Papa and Mama were kissing her cheeks as she held a cone of vanilla ice cream. It was the very same day she had learned how to say and write her entire name perfectly. It was the best day of her life. It was evident in the way her eyes shined and her lips stretched across her face in the photo.

But alas, those were all she had to her name now. Her dead Mama's ring, now hung around her neck, and a photo of the dead.

It was true, she now knows. The little red haired girl with pigtails and yellow ribbons had died along with her parents on that very day, and there would no longer be a time when she could smile like she did in the photo.

And maybe the five-year-old had known too at that time, because as the uniformed man, who had introduced himself as Mr. Petrovitch, drove her away to where he said would be her new home, there was only one thing that filled her mind.

_My name is Natalia. Natalia Alianovna Romanova. _

_And I killed my parents. _

Since then, every single time someone would muster enough courage to ask her about her birthday, she lies. She would put on the poker face that she has perfected and look away, not letting anyone drown in the sea of emotions that would fill her eyes as she says that she doesn't remember a single thing about it at all, not even the month, and that it isn't important anyway.

But there is one day every year, the very same date, where she drinks herself to oblivion, no matter how many bottles of bitter liquid she would need to drown herself in in order for her body to succumb to the alcoholic effects.

She rambles on about the foolishness of celebrating being alive in that cruel and painful world, she rambles on about how perhaps she should be long gone by now, and she rambles on about how birthdays are stupid and overrated.

_What's the point_, she questions to no one as she sits in the empty room she would find herself in, _when you're just taking another step closer to a stupid rock… with a birthday carved into it that I'm pretty sure is wrong. _

But eventually, when the alcohol takes its toll on her body, the part of her mind that she keeps locked away on every other day of the year would open its gates and unleash the demons within her.

She throws the bottles on the ground, not caring if the shards of broken glass cut her because, at that moment, that would be preferable to the pain caused by the shards of her broken heart.

She lets tears roll down her cheeks and bites down hard on her lips to keep the cries within her, but fails every time.

She releases string after string of slurred words, not even knowing what she's trying to say anymore as the sobs take over her body.

And among those words she spews out of the drunken mouth, the same few words always make their repeated appearance.

_Мне очень жаль._

_I'm sorry._

* * *

**Note- **

I stole a line from The Vampire Diaries in this chapter, did you find it? Anyone else loves Dalaric/Team Badass by the way?

Anyway that was my take on what happened in Natasha's childhood and I hope you enjoyed it.

Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 2 - A Murder Where Nobody Dies

**There Was A Little Girl, Chapter 2- A Murder Where Nobody Dies (Life In The Red Room) **

_Thank you, kind sirs__  
__You've made me what I am today__  
A bundle of broken nerves__  
A mouthful of words I'm still afraid to say_

_- Gothic Lolita, Emilie Autumn_

She remembers finally finding out that the strange man in the even stranger uniform had lied.

Mr. Ivan Petrovitch hadn't brought her to another home. He had brought her to the Red Room facility, a place where she and other girls were trained and conditioned as killing machines.

It was akin to a jungle, a survival of the fittest.

Only the best would survive.

* * *

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. _

She had timidly introduced herself to the nineteen other girls she was told to share a dormitory with.

They had laughed at her, saying that it didn't matter what her name was here. They'd taken one look at her pigtails and ribbons and told her that she was a baby. They sniggered at her small and bony frame and told her that she would be the first to die among them all.

She had crawled onto the hard and stiff bed underneath the rough covers, holding on to the only items she had in remembrance of Papa, Mama, and the little girl with pig tails: Mama's necklace, her photo, and her yellow ribbons.

She didn't like this place already. It wasn't a place where she would find friends. The other girls were mean to her and she didn't understand what they meant at all.

The next day, she did.

* * *

She was woken up at the break of dawn and had her very first taste of the training that was expected of her from then on. It was tiring, and she had been relieved to have completed it and finally have lunch, since breakfast was apparently not given here.

As she collected her lunch and sat down at a table all by herself, she turned her head towards the back of the mess hall where a huge commotion had been started. Suddenly, a gunshot rung through the air and the mess hall fell to silence. All she could see was the limp body of a girl not much older than herself being careless dragged out of the mess hall by a warden.

She looked around the mess hall.

The other girls have already returned to finishing their food, nothing showing on their faces that would indicate that they had just witnessed a girl being shot.

She learned quickly and followed suit.

It wasn't until late at night when she had finished yet another few rounds of physical training that she heard the girls in the dormitory whispering among themselves about why the girl was shot. They said the girl had fallen sick one too many times. She was a runt and would have died long before she completed her training anyway. She was a liability, that was why.

She realized that was what the girls had meant the day before. And at that moment, all she wanted was what they said to not be true.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. I will not be a liability. I will survive._

* * *

She remembers her training increasing with intensity each day. She had thought her second day at the Red Room was as tiring as it could possibly get.

She was wrong. But it didn't matter. All that matter was she was getting better, faster and stronger.

It was a good thing. She would become an asset to Mother Russia if she was good enough. Mother Russia was all that mattered and it would be what she would fight for eventually.

That was what she was told.

* * *

She remembers the room full of white, the men dressed in white.

They looked like doctors, except she remembered that Papa and Mama used to tell her that doctors were the good guys. These men didn't look like good guys.

She remembers being forcibly pushed into a chair and strapped down with bindings too tight for her comfort.

She remembers hearing pitiful screams and cries.

She remembers they belonged to her.

She didn't know, how long it took or what was happening.

What she did know, was that she had stopped crying and screaming abruptly when they started taking her apart there and then.

She still doesn't know how much they took from her though; they had carefully made sure of that.

But she does know that she had walked out of the room with cold and dead eyes, thinking to herself.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. I will be a world class ballerina. But first and foremost, above all else, I am going to fight for Mother Russia. The blood I will spill is not important. What is important is what is in my blood. It is the blood of Mother Russia. I am a child of Mother Russia, and I will fight for Her and Her alone. _

The doctors had said she could be excused from training that afternoon. They said she could have the afternoon to herself for being such a good girl that day, and that Mother Russia would be proud of her.

She had gone back to the empty dormitory then, not feeling quite right.

It was when she felt the volcano in her tummy that she sprinted to the dingy bathroom next to the dormitory, and emptied her insides into the rusty toilet bowl.

It really didn't feel right at all.

_Who am I? _

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. I... _

_I don't know. _

_I don't remember. _

She tries to remember why she wasn't, and maybe still isn't, so sure anymore. She tries to remember what there was to her name that was so important. She tries to remember the memories they had taken from her.

She fails each time.

Sometimes, she cries.

_My name is Natasha Romanoff, but that is all I know. _

_My name was Natalia Alianovna Romanova, but that is all I want to remember._

* * *

She remembers the first time she was allowed to be in the same training session as the other girls in her dormitory. It hadn't taken very long to happen; she had found that she was a fast learner. It wasn't before long either, that she slowly became better than half of them. It was easy, she had thought to herself. She knew she wasn't the brawniest, but she was smart and sharp, and she was quick and agile. It was an advantage she had over the bigger and taller girls, some who towered over her petite frame.

And then there was the first time she was pitted against one of the other girls.

They didn't tell her what exactly she was supposed to do, except to fight the girl standing on the opposite end of the mat.

She remembered that girl. She was one of those who had laughed at her on her first day at the Red Room.

She immediately knew what she had to do. She felt it in her bones. She threw it into the new techniques she had just learnt not long ago.

It was anger.

Before she knew it, she was being pulled aside and was told that it was enough. She was told that she had done well.

Looking at the girl barely moving on the ground in front of her with a bloodied face and shallow breathing, she wasn't quite sure if that was what she would have called a good thing.

But then, her instructor had patted her on her head and praised her. He said she had the potential.

So she smiled a smile that her olive green eyes did not reflect, and thought about the many other different ways that she could have done it, perhaps on the other girls that had laughed at her too.

She counted.

With only the new set of techniques she'd just learnt, there could be fourteen other ways, or thirty seven. Depending on whether she was allowed to use her feet.

She smirked to herself as her instructor pitted her against another four girls for the rest of the session.

That night, when she returned to her dormitory, she didn't feel a thing when she caught a glimpse of two of the girls with whom she sparred sitting on their beds with bruised limbs and faces, throwing her wary glances every now and then.

She didn't feel a thing when she saw another three empty beds, belonging to the other three girls she had injured during the sparring session.

She didn't feel a thing when only two of them returned from the infirmary.

She never wondered about the last one, the first girl she had fought.

But she knew that she never came back, and sometime later, she realized.

_I am Natalia Alianovna Romanova and I will be the best. Only the best will survive. _

_I will kill, or I will be killed._

* * *

She remembers the day she almost lost the photo of Papa and Mama and the little girl's yellow ribbons.

She was nine then.

She had just finished her quick shower after another long and tiresome day and was prepared to hit the hay when she walked into the dormitory and saw the girls crowding around her bed.

That was when she saw the photo in the hands of Yelena Belova and the strips of bright yellow thrown carelessly on the floor.

It was no secret that Yelena abhorred her for being the top girl in every single class, leaving her in second place all the time. And there she was, with the rest of the girls huddled around her, holding the photo with a high-pitched laugher.

_Oh look, little Natalia, eating ice-cream with her dead parents, how sweet. _

Yelena mocked, dangling the photo before her as the laughter of the other girls that filled the dormitory egged her on.

_Give it back. _

Her voice was venomous, laced with anger and hatred.

_Make me, you pathetic bitch. _

The sound of the photo ripping filled her ears and before she knew it, she was on top of Yelena, her hands like a vise around her neck and the photo left in halves on the floor.

The other girls had screamed at her to stop, trying to pull her back, but her strength was only fuelled even more by her rage. Yelena's face was turning a nasty shade of purple and her hands were clawing at her, struggling to get rid of her.

The wardens had heard the commotion and rushed in, knocking her on her head with the back of their guns before she finally loosened her grip.

She scrambled for the torn halves of the photo and the ribbons and clutched them to her chest protectively. Seconds later, she found herself being dragged out of the dormitory.

She was told that she had to be punished for her deplorable deplorable.

That night was spent alone in an empty and cold dark room without windows and light.

She shivered and folded her legs into her body, feeling tiny in the huge space filled with nothing. Her hands tightened around the pieces of Papa and Mama's photo and the crumpled ribbons, vowing to keep them with her every single second in the future.

A single drop of tear then rolled down her cheeks, as the thought that the room was exactly like her, empty and filled with nothingness, invaded her mind.

She thought she was losing her mind then, or that she already had.

In the dark, where her breathing became faster and shakier, she tried to hold on to who she was, among the other things she had been made to believe she was.

A pathetic girl. A liability. A prima ballerina. A fighter. A killer. A murderer. An assassin.

No.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. _

She repeated to herself, over and over again, keeping herself grounded to something in the darkness of nothing until the next morning, when the door was unlocked and she was dragged out of the room, her eyes straining at the sudden invasion of light.

And when she was sent off to training again, she smirked to herself as the other girls, especially a very sulky Yelena, stayed clear of her.

They feared her, and that made her feel powerful. It made her feel good.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I will hold the power of fear over them, as long as I am the best._

* * *

She remembers the day they took her body apart, like taking her mind apart hadn't been enough.

They'd taken her to a similar white room as before.

She didn't scream this time.

All she did was grit her teeth as the men in white injected chemical after chemical into her, using large needles that ought to have terrified a child her age. But she had just closed her eyes and bit down on her tongue. She wasn't that little girl anymore, after all.

Soon enough, her clenched fists relaxed, and consciousness slipped from her mind. What happened to her in the white room after that wasn't made known to her, but she figured it out soon enough.

She had left the room feeling sore all over, and particularly in her lower abdomen, across which she found a stitch afterwards.

The next day during training, she had found her body being stronger and faster, her mind sharper and her senses heightened.

She had thought that the time she spent in the white room must have been a blessing.

It isn't until years later when she learns about the monthly cycle that naturally occurs in the bodies of other women her age that she realizes that the Red Room had taken yet one more thing from her in that white room.

Sometimes, she sees whole perfect families, hanging around in the park or across the street, and she has to turn away before the pain gets the better of her.

She doesn't let herself dream of it. She knows it would destroy her, so she reminds herself.

_My name is Natasha Romanoff, and I will never, can never, have a family. _

_Get over it._


	4. Chapter 3 - Sweet Death

**There Was A Little Girl, Chapter 3- Sweet Death (Drakov's Daughter)**

_Why live a life  
That's painted with pity  
And sadness and strife__  
Why dream a dream__  
That's tainted with trouble  
And less than it seems__  
Why bother bothering__  
Just for a poem  
Or another sad song to sing__  
Why live a life_

_- The Art Of Suicide, Emilie Autumn_

She remembers becoming the very first Black Widow.

It hadn't come as a surprise, really. She had rapidly improved by the day and had always been the best among all the other girls.

She had been so good, in fact, that she had been awarded with privileges that the others could only dream of.

She had her very own strict but experienced advanced trainers and instructors, her very own exhausting yet fruitful ballet lessons, and of course, her very own room.

The day she moved out of the dormitory and into her own room, there had been only three other girls left out of the original nineteen. Yelena, who had been begrudgingly playing second fiddle to her without an incident ever since the last, had been among the three.

Without acknowledging their sulky yet envious faces, she had grabbed her set of uniforms and the few weapons she could call her own. That was all she would need; Mama's sapphire ring has always been safely around her neck, with Papa and Mama's photo and the yellow ribbons in her pocket all the time.

She never looked back as she walked down the corridor towards the room that was hers. She had left them behind, being better than them all. She thought she should be feeling brilliant.

But as she stepped through the doors of her new room, what she felt wasn't expected at all.

Being the only occupant in that entire room only made it even more evident that she was alone, and that was not all.

She was lonely.

That was quickly put aside, however, as she reminded herself of how she had gotten to be where she was, to be who she was.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. There is only space for one best in the Red Room. That's me. I'm the best. _

And so when she received the title of the first Black Widow, her new set of uniforms, complete with customized weapons and widow's bites from Mr. Ivan Petrovitch himself at just the age of thirteen, she had held her head up high and let them fill her head with promises of being somebody.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am somebody. I am the Black Widow._

* * *

She remembers the first mission she received.

It wasn't what she had expected. She had expected the missions to be exactly like what she was trained for, like the simulated situations she was often subjected to during trainings.

There had been those where she was subjected to torture, again and again in all possible forms, sometimes continuously for hours and hours on end.

There had been those where she had to learn that her body was no more than an instrument to be used to extract information out of a male warden all too willing to be her pseudo-target.

And there had been those where she had to overcome seemingly impossible obstacles, like a raging fire threatening to swallow her or a shower of real bullets hot on her trail, before engaging in combat against at least ten trained fighters without even time to catch her breath.

That was what she had been trained for, who she had been trained as. A killer, in the body of a thirteen-year-old girl, yet capable of accomplishing the impossible.

But none of those various near fatal simulated situations that had pushed her so close to the fine line between life and death had prepared her for her very first mission.

It should sound rather simple, really.

There was a billionaire who had been secretly providing funds for America companies, or something like that. She wasn't really sure of the details anyway. Her job was just to take him down. That was all she needed to care about, all she needed to know.

The only problem was that Konstantin Drakov was highly cautious, and had spent huge amounts of money on security, ensuring his safety from people who would want to assassinate him. People like her.

But the Red Room had a plan.

According to them, all she had to do was to join the dance troupe his beloved daughter was in, befriend his daughter, gain his daughter's trust and thus his trust, and then watch him take his very last breath.

She was not prepared for it, however. Not at all.

She was prepared to hunt, to hurt and to kill, but she was definitely not ready to be a friend to someone else, not even if it was only as a cover.

She had been trained to kill, to survive, but not to live, to be human.

However, between being the prima ballerina of the show and pretending to be friends with Kseniya Konstantinova, she had found herself actually taking a liking to the life of Anastasia Ivanova that was her alias.

Eventually, she had been invited to Kseniya's house for a sleepover, and reality set in as she found it the perfect opportunity to assassinate the father of a girl that was the closest thing she had to a friend in close to eight years.

As Kseniya brought her around the gigantic mansion when she, as Anastasia Ivanova, first turned up, she took in as much as she could about the building, noting especially the room which Kseniya had indicated was Konstantin Drakov's.

That night, before they slept, Kseniya pulled her long chocolate brown hair into braided pigtails.

She was immediately brought back to the day the little girl with the pigtails and yellow ribbons had died along with her parents.

She'd tightened her hold on the bottle of nail polish Kseniya had lent her as she watched the girl braid her locks. What she saw was the person the little girl with the pigtails and yellow ribbons could have been.

_Do you have ribbons? Yellow ones? I think they would look perfect on you. _She had asked, without really thinking.

_Yes, sure. They're right here. _The girl had smiled, reaching into the drawer and pulling out two strands of bright yellow ribbons and handing them to her. _My mother used to tie them on for me. Help me, will you? _

_Your mother…? _She questioned as she tightened the ribbon on one braid, and then the other. The vague file hadn't mentioned Konstantin Drakov having a wife, now that she thought about it.

_She died a few years back. _Kseniya shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but she was trained in reading body language, she saw through it.

_I'm sorry, I… _She'd stuttered, unsure of what she should say.

_No, don't be. Come on, tell me how I look, Anastasia. _The girl had stood up then, giving her a little twirl. It was obvious that Kseniya no longer wanted to talk about her mother, and so she did not push.

_Beautiful. _She looked up at Kseniya, and gave her a smile.

She meant it.

The girl before her was what she could have been, truly a girl, and it was a beautiful sight.

That night, long after Kseniya had fallen into deep slumber from the tasteless sedative she had secretly poured into her hot chocolate, she'd made her way through the dark to the room from which Konstantin Drakov's heavy snores could be heard.

There was not a moment of hesitation as she reached into the sleeve of her pink pajamas and produced a sharp knife. She was emotionless as she made the quick deep slit across the man's throat.

Her job was done, all without a single sound.

It was her time to leave. All she had to do was to return to Kseniya's room and pretend to be that innocent thirteen-year-old named Anastasia who had slept soundly through the entire night.

But as she stood over the peaceful sleeping form of Kseniya, she was suddenly struck by what could lie ahead in the future for the girl. The girl who was now an orphan because of her.

She blinked.

An orphan like her.

She reached out for one of the pigtails, and smoothed her hand over the yellow ribbon that fluttered slightly from the breeze that blew through the open window. For a moment, she thought she saw herself, instead of Kseniya, lying on the bed without a care in the world, yet.

Had she killed the girl as well? Had she taken away her life too?

Would she turn out like me?

There wasn't a question about her actions that followed then.

She drew out the knife once again, and made the same slit across the girl's neck, just like she had done to Konstantin Drakov.

Except this time, her heart was banging against her chest as she felt a sadness course through her veins.

Because she had just saved a girl from the same fate that she had been subjected to almost eight years ago. The fate of being an orphan. The fate of becoming what she was.

But the very reason that girl had needed to be saved, was because of her.

Her grip on the knife tightened as yet another emotion dulled her senses. It was an emotion she wasn't quite familiar with. She blinked again. She was able to put a name to it then.

It was pity.

She tasted bile rising in her throat.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am the Black Widow. _

_This is not what I should feel. _

_I should feel proud. I have spilled blood, but it does not matter. I have done well for my Mother Russia. _

She blinked again.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am the Black widow. _

_I am proud. I have spilled blood, and it will never matter, for I have done well for my Mother Russia. _

The next moment, she was gone, through the open window of the dead girl's bedroom.

No one knew what happened that night, but the next morning, when the family of just a father and his daughter was found murdered in the night, there were people who mourned for their deaths.

She had envied that.

Even in their deaths, they had been remembered, been mourned for.

She had returned to the Red Room, uncertain of what they would say about her performance on the first mission, since her mission objective had been merely to put Konstantin Drakov down.

To her surprise, Mr. Ivan Petrovitch had nodded his head and regarded her with pleasure. _With the girl dead, no one would remember you were even there. Remember, Natasha, every loose end you leave untied will return to trip you over in the end, so leave no trace. A life is never worth too much to pay for the successful fulfillment of your duties to Mother Russia. You did well today. _

His words didn't sound quite right then, but she wasn't taught to question her superiors.

She had left the room mulling over what the man who had given her the life she was living now had said.

Maybe he was right.

She didn't fall asleep that night, in the tiny room that suddenly felt too empty and too big.

_A life is never worth too much to pay for the successful fulfillment of my duties to Mother Russia. _

_So how many lives would be worth too much then? _

_How much is my life worth then? _

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am the Black Widow. But… does that make me any more worthy than anyone else?_


	5. Chapter 4 - Stripped, Raw, Empty

**There Was A Little Girl, Chapter 4- Stripped, Raw, Empty (São Paulo)**

_Thank God I'm pretty  
Every skill I ever have will be in question  
Every ill that I must suffer merely brought on by myself  
Though the cops would come for someone else  
I'm blessed  
I'm truly privilaged to look this good without clothes on  
Which only means that when I sing you're jerking off  
And when I'm gone you won't remember  
Thank God I'm pretty_

_- Thank God I'm Pretty, Emilie Autumn_

She remembers the first time she was shown respect.

It was during a mission in São Paulo.

She had received orders from the Red Room to remove a Russian mogul who had fled there from the face of the earth.

With just a photo of her target ingrained in her mind, she had set off to São Paulo.

She was already fifteen by then.

For the past two years, she had become accustomed to using her body as a bait, easily luring the targets eager to claim her body as a prize. Men who would run their filthy hands all over her, believing that they possessed her. Men who would take her to a seedy hotel room afterwards, looking forward to a quick fuck with the pulchritudinous young girl in their hands.

Sometimes, she let them. She had learnt that many of those men were only too eager to spill secrets and information that the Red Room was after when they were half draped over her, having satisfied themselves with her. It would only take a little on her part to coax the information out of their loose mouths then.

Regardless, none of those men had lived to see another day.

She was confident that this latest mission would be similarly successful as well.

She had dressed in a tiny blood red dress that showed off much more skin than a girl her age would have preferred. It didn't matter though. That night, she was a woman, she would let her target take her to yet another dingy and secluded location before she turned the tables on him and finished him off. Her makeup and done-up hair, together with the tiny scrap of cloth hugging her body, only made her look the part even more.

She'd been slowly sipping on a drink in a dimly lit bar when she finally spotted her target entering from the corner of her eye. He had taken a seat at a booth in a corner, and she allowed him to down a couple of drinks before she started throwing him a few shy glances and coyish smiles. Then, she'd made her way over, the sway in her hips already a practiced motion, and sunk into the seat opposite him.

She'd leaned forward, giving him a perfect view down her dress as she spoke in a sultry tone. _Only a hundred Reals and it's yours for tonight. _

He shifted in his seat. _Would you like to go outside instead? _He had asked.

She had been surprised; the men she had encountered previously would definitely not have had any reservations against shoving their tongues down her throat and their hands up her dress there and then. She definitely didn't have complains though. This would only make her job easier, faster.

She'd let her target lead her out of the bar and into the streets before reaching for his face, under the pretense of giving him a kiss when actually getting into position to snap his head right off his neck. However, the man had gently placed a hand on her shoulder and placed distance between them.

She frowned.

_Is someone making you do this? _

Her heart thumped wildly. How had she been made? She had always been careful.

For a moment, panic flashed in her eyes before she composed herself again.

But the man had misunderstood the panic, and continued speaking. _No, no don't be afraid. If someone is making you do this for the money, I can help you. _

She eyed him warily then, both stunned and confused by his gentle tone.

Again, he continued. _Look, I promise you, I respect you as a woman, you can trust me. You don't have to do this. _

She held his eyes for what felt like an eternity.

Respect.

The word ran through her head, again and again, filling her with confusion and conflict.

The only respect she had been taught in her life was respect for the Red Room.

She was never aware that she could be worthy of respect.

Sure, she was the Black Widow. People feared her because of that. But here, standing before her, was a man who respected her as a human being.

You don't have to do this.

His words echoed within her mind.

Didn't she? Didn't she have to finish her job, leave him in dead with nothing but cold blood still in his veins?

Trust.

She'd heard that word before.

It was a word ridiculed in the Red Room.

_Trust, _she remembered Mr. Ivan Petrovitch had once said, _is stupid, yet dangerous. If you do not use it to kill, it will kill you. _

The sound of a boisterous group leaving the bar from behind jolted her from her thoughts.

Trust.

She let the emotionless mask on her face fall and put on one of panic and fear.

_It isn't safe to talk here. Come. _

The man had respected her, had trusted her. He followed without a question.

The shadows of the alley engulfed them both.

_What is it, girl? Tell me, I will try to help. _His voice was laced with sympathetic as he watched her turn towards him.

It wasn't the face of a fearful and nervous young woman that came to face him.

It was the face of a dead girl, with no emotions, with no mercy.

_Trust, _she murmured in a low and deadly voice that made her target's blood run cold, _is stupid. It is dangerous. _

It was sudden and quick.

_If I do not use it to kill, it will kill me. _

Her target was now on the ground, his head twisted at an odd angle.

She had laughed at that very moment, as the wide eyes of the dead man stared up at her, still filled with the fear from the very last seconds of his life.

She had laughed at the man's stupidity, as she recalled her lessons from the Red Room.

It was exactly like what they had told her. It is better to forgo all human emotions. They would only make her weak, they would only lead to her death.

It was the man's foolish sympathy that had made him weak.

It was his stupid willingness to trust that had killed him.

She had still been laughing the cold laugh that could have chilled the already dead body of her target to the bones as she fled the alley. But along the way, she found the mad laugher dying down as the adrenaline drained out of her system.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am the Black Widow. I will never trust anyone. I will never weaken myself with mere human emotions. _

It didn't sound as good an idea as before.

A flash appeared across the sky, the distant rumbling of thunder could be heard. The first few drops of rain dripped on her face.

Her footsteps slowed, and slowed.

The rain got heavier by the second.

She stopped.

The streets were empty, the houses were quiet, windows closed. The street lights flickered.

She felt it again, the loneliness she had tried to ignore time and time again.

The stabbing pain in the left of her chest appeared again as the realization struck her. She had killed the first person on that planet who had showed her respect.

_Lonely. Alone. Lonely. _

She'd said those words out loud. They didn't sound good at all. They left a bitter taste on her tongue.

She turned her face upwards, facing the sky and closed her eyes, letting the rain fall on her face and trickle through her hair.

The hair products washed off along with the rain, leaving her red hair in its natural waves and curls, matted to her face and body. The makeup she had worn for the mission streamed down her face, revealing the bare yet still flawless face.

_Her _face.

The face of the fifteen-year-old girl she was supposed to be and not the twenty-something Brazilian working woman she had been playing.

Her muscles loosened as the water rolled off the skin, washing off the sweat and dirt she had accumulated on her latest mission.

She was left standing in the middle of a street of São Paulo, bare and without a disguise, bar the dress she had on.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and this is me. _

The rain water that ran from her face and into her mouth had tasted slightly salty then.

To this day, she hasn't admitted that it hadn't been the rain at all.

Not even to herself.


	6. Chapter 5 - Sin Morality, Morality Sin

**There Was A Little Girl, Chapter 5- Sin Morality, Morality Sin (Hospital Fire)**

_And if I had a dollar for every time  
I repented the sin  
And commit the same crime  
I'd be sitting on top of the world_

_- God Help Me, Emilie Autumn_

She remembers the first time she made a mistake.

The Red Room hadn't been too concerned about it. As long as she'd met the mission objectives successfully without revealing her identity or that of the Red Room's, anything else would pretty much be brushed off as collateral damage.

That wasn't what it felt like to her, however.

To her, it would always be among the top few items of the never-ending list of mistakes she would never stop regretting, even back then, when the Red Room had marked that mistake as yet another mission accomplished.

It was during yet another one of the missions the Red Room had assigned to her.

She was to infiltrate a hospital disguised as a nurse on duty. The reason for that was the temporary greatly heightened security due to the hospitalization of her high-profile target. Her job was to then administer a highly lethal dosage of poison to her target and to get herself out of the room and preferably the building before her target even takes his last breathe.

Things had gone exactly to plan, at first at least.

She'd managed to get acquire a nurse's uniform, and even a fake identity card and hospital staff pass for herself. After a few days' worth of surveillance and observation from the tacky hotel opposite the hospital, she'd managed to note down the exact timings when the nurses would enter the heavily guarded deluxe hospital ward to check on her target.

Finally, she'd decided that the amount of intelligence she had would be sufficient and walked into the hospital at the break of dawn and slipped into the deserted staff changing room. She slipped on the drab uniform she'd previously obtained and pulled her hair into a tight bun, putting on a pair of old-fashioned spectacles for good measure before moving into the hospital hallways and making her way to the deluxe hospital ward located on the topmost level. Not long after, she had managed to enter the ward, guarded by a few dozen guards on the outside along the hallways of the entire level, and another half a dozen on the inside.

Everything was going according to plan, and before she knew it, she was already preparing the syringe full of deadly liquid as a nurse would a syringe full of medicine that would bring life to a patient. However, what she hadn't expected was the weakened man that was her target bringing a shaky hand towards her arm and placing it there, seemingly to stop her actions.

_Family, _he had breathed out in a raspy voice low enough for only her ears. _My family, my children, they need me. _

Her breath had caught in her throat, her mind racing and trying to come up with a reasonable explanation that would bring on the unexpected statement from the sick man.

_That, _his eyes momentarily flickering to the syringe filled with clear blue liquid in her hands, _I've seen that before and I'd be damned if I didn't recognize it again. _His voice was barely a whisper then. _It was what killed my father when I was just a helpless kid. I watched him die. _

She was frozen in her actions then, her eyes held by the sadness in her target's eyes.

_You are here to kill me. _It wasn't a question, and she could almost see the resignation crawl into his eyes as he made his one final plead for his life.

_Go, leave now and the guards won't bother you. _She noted the guards from the corner of her eyes. They were viewing the pair with suspicious looks, aware of their exchange but unable to hear the words of the sick man.

_I have a family, I have children. I am their father. They need me. _His voice had risen a few notches, tightening his grip on her arm and pushing it away with the new found strength from his will to live.

The guards were more alert now, catching wind that something was amiss.

Sensing the tension that now filled the air, she quickly averted her eyes from the wide and pleading sad eyes of her target and cleared her throat, assuming the role of a nurse once again. With one quick motion, she inserted the syringe into her target's arm and emptied its contents, keeping her face emotionless throughout.

It had been a little more than two years since she became the Black Widow, and she found it had been getting quicker and easier for her to put her targets down. However, there was not once when she had been able to look them in the eye and watch them draw their very last breath.

This time felt different. She had removed the syringe by now, ready to make her exit before the guards noticed anything was wrong when she caught sight of the silver of moisture at the corners of the eyes of the bedridden man. She had held the eyes full of sorrow then, watching the man mouth his very last words.

_Leave my family alone. _

It was too late.

The machine in the room had started to ping out of control, sounding much too loud in the silent room. The guards immediately looked at her with accusing faces.

_I will get help. _She turned on her heels, and took off from the room, putting on a flustered appearance when actually thinking of the quickest escape route from the building: the roof top.

She had just reached the stairwell at the end of the hallway after passing the curious and suspicious stares of the other guards when she heard the guards in the ward finally putting two and two together.

_Get her!_

She flew up the stairs, gaining a head start just as the army of guards made to move towards the stairwell after her.

Throwing the door open, the fresh air hit her face and cleared her lungs of the hospital air in which illness and death hung.

Completely acting on the survival instincts the Red Room had endowed her with, she immediately slammed the door shut and latched it before swiveling her head around, looking for anything that could come in useful in either her escape from or her attack against that many trained guards.

That was when she caught sight of the countless rows of overheated air-conditioning units, along with a few bottles of alcohol abandoned by the hospital. Before she could even register her own actions, she doused the units with the highly flammable liquid and reached for her widow's bites from under the nurse's uniform, activating them before aiming them at select units.

Running to take cover, she felt the heat of the enormous spontaneous combustion of the units at the very moment the guards succeeded in busting the door open.

Shouts were suddenly ringing from the hoard whose primary focus had now shifted to getting the occupants of the hospital out of the building before the huge fire threatened to spread.

She saw her chance and she took it.

As the guards retreated back into the building, she grabbed the few other bottles of alcohol and strategically poured a trail towards the stairwell and down the stairs. When it was enough to ensure that the fire would surely spread as much as possible downwards toward the lower floors, she fled, knowing that the fire would engulf her as quickly as it would the guards and the building.

However, as she perched on the roof of the hotel and watched the burning building now glowing with flames, the previous trance she was in finally wore off. She was finally looking at the damage she had caused from just her survival instincts alone.

_What have I done? _

Her heart beat wildly.

_I had to do it to live; the guards were in my way. I had to do it. _

She tried to calm herself down, but unlike previous times when she could easily brush off the guilt by telling herself that she simply had to do it, her heart continued to pound against her chest.

This time it was different.

Her other targets had pleaded for their own lives, when she was in the mood to let them speak before she ended their lives. This target, however, the sickly man lying in a bed in a hospital, had pleaded for his family and his children.

He had pleaded for the ones he loved.

_What have I done? _

Her eyes shifted into focus again, taking in the sight before her.

The hospital building was now fully ablaze, the trail of alcohol clearly working as the fire worked its way down the stairs and finally took over the lobby too.

Screams filled her ears.

The arid smell of smoke filled her lungs.

Heat ate at her skin even though she was on the other side of the street.

And most of all, there was one thing that filled the air.

It was death.

_What have I done? _

The air of death that had filled the hospital within had now made its way out, escaping the building while making it obvious that the sickly patients in the building had been unable to accomplish the same feat.

A crowd had started to arrive at the scene, some crying out for their loved ones still in the fire.

Once again, she was reminded of the man in the ward at the topmost level, probably not only dead, but also burnt and charred beyond recognition by now.

He had loved ones too.

_What have I done? _

The fire.

The people left behind.

The love that was lost.

_Wasn't this how I once killed Papa and Mama? _

_What have I done? _

Collateral damage, the Red Room had called it, when she returned and reported how the events had played out.

But collateral damage was not what she would call the look in the man's eyes as he pleaded for a life that was not his own. It was not what she would call the thick smell of death that still haunted her that night. It was not what she would call the cries of the people as they prayed for their loved ones.

The Red Room had only told her that she had made a mistake of not leaving once the job was done. All they said about it was for her to be more careful in future, to do a more thorough job.

She lay awake that night, trying to shut out the raspy whisper of her target.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am the Black Widow. I don't make mistakes, but I think I've made one today. _

_I didn't leave the room fast enough. I hadn't been careful enough. I needed to be more thorough on my job. _

_Utter rubbish. _

_I killed a man today. He didn't seem to deserve it. _

_I killed an entire hospital of people today. They didn't seem to deserve it. _

_Perhaps not as much as I do._


	7. Chapter 6 - Alive, But Yet To Live

**There Was A Little Girl, Chapter 6- Alive, But Yet To Live (Clint Barton You Idiot I) **

_'Cause I'm half sick of shadows  
I want to see the sky  
Everyone else can watch as the sun goes down  
So why can't I_

_'Cause I don't think I can face another night_  
_Where I'm half sick of shadows_  
_And I can't see the sky_  
_Everyone else can watch as the tide comes in_  
_So why can't I_

_'Cause I know I'm the cursed one_  
_I know I'm meant to die_  
_Everyone else can watch as their dreams untie_  
_So why can't I_

_- Shalott, Emilie Autumn_

She remembers the day she found herself.

It was in the evening, in the light of a setting sun.

One moment, she was crouching over the ledge of an abandoned building's rooftop, gathering the information she would need to catch her target off guard. The next moment, she had an arrow whizzing past her, barely missing her cheek.

She hadn't seen anything when she whipped her face around to scan her surroundings, but before she knew it, another arrow flew towards her. She had barely enough time to dodge the second arrow when a third, a fourth, and a fifth arrow came flying in her direction.

Sensing the imminent danger she would be in if she continued to remain on the open roof, she flipped herself over the edge of the building that, thankfully, stood at only two stories tall. She'd barely steadied herself after the near perfect landing when she heard the heavy landing of another pair of legs.

She took off, the wind blowing past her as she ran as fast as her legs could carry her. As she avoided the arrows that seemingly came from nowhere, she tore through alleys and in between buildings, hoping to shake the unseen attacker off.

Her heart thumped wildly.

This wasn't supposed to happen. She had always been careful, she had made sure to leave no traces, no one could possibly know enough about her to be able to hunt her down.

But this unseen archer obviously did.

An arrow tore through the side of her calf, causing a searing pain to shoot up her leg.

She continued running.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am the Black Widow. I've been through worse. This measly arrow can't bring me down. _

She clutched at her thigh, willing herself to go on, but she felt herself slowing down.

Another shock of pain coursed through her body. This time, an arrow had lodged itself in her back, just below her right shoulder.

She bit down on the side of her mouth, not wanting to give her attacker any satisfaction of hearing her cry out in pain.

She turned another corner, looking over her bleeding shoulder to see if the attacker had followed, but failed.

Exasperation and desperation ran through her veins.

An arrow landed almost directly in front of her, barely missing her feet.

She immediately switched her course and ran into a dark alley, thinking that since her attacker was shooting from a distance, it would be likely that he'd lose sight of her in the darkness.

Of course, it hadn't occurred to her that while the alley would shelter her with darkness, it would trap her within the very walls that blocked out the light.

She skidded to a stop, cursing inwardly as she finally caught sight of the high wall before her, cutting off any possible routes of escape.

The archer's arrows had purposefully led her here, and she had been stupid enough to not suspect a thing.

Gritting her teeth, she reached behind her and pulled out the arrow that had previously hit her.

Yet again, she mentally kicked herself for being over powered by mere medieval weapons.

Her breathing came fast as she threw the arrow onto the ground, attempting to shift her body into a defensive stance but only to wince at the pain pulsing through her leg and her back.

That was when the figure entered the alley, holding up a bow and arrow and aiming it directly at her.

_I must say, you are pretty impressive. _

The voice belonged to a man, and her eyes strained in the darkness to take in face behind the bow. She could hear it in his accent, he was American.

_I've been observing you for a while now, and you amaze me every single time. _

She could see his face clearer now, as he stepped into the dark as well.

_You've killed so many, but it took us a long time to find you, you know that? _

He had a faint stubble along his jaw line and his hair was brown, the color the earth.

_I was sent to kill you. _

Once again, her instincts kicked in. She lunged forward, swinging her arm out but the injury in her back strained, causing her arm to miss the man pathetically. He kicked her back against the wall, still keeping the arrow trained on between her green wild eyes.

_You've been injured by my arrows, you can't fight anymore. _

This time, the arrow was inches from her face, and his was hovering just closely behind it and his bow.

_You've lost. _

She'd expected anger to course through her veins at the mocking words, but as they rang through her ears, she realized the truth in his words.

She'd lost.

She hadn't yet lost her life, but she'd already lost.

She'd lost her parents.

She'd lost herself.

She'd lost…

She frowns.

She doesn't even remember what else she had lost.

But yet, she felt it.

The huge gaping hole within her where everything she was used to be.

_I've lost. _

Her voice was barely a whisper, shaking.

She looked down at her hands as she slowly unfurled them.

Her hands that were stained with her own blood from her injuries.

Her hands that had spilled much more blood that what was before her very eyes then.

Her hands, they looked so…

Small, childlike.

How old was she again?

Sixteen.

Barely an adult, just a teenager.

_I've lost, ever since she died, ever since Natalia Alianovna Romanova died._

The moisture was gathering at the corners of her eyes now.

_I don't deserve this. I don't deserve to live anymore, not like this, I don't want to. Please, end it. _

She slowly shut her eyes then, bracing herself for the sting of the arrow, for the last breath she would ever take in her life. She wasn't even sure if she had even lived.

She could feel the tear rolling down her cheek, the tear that contained all that she felt at that moment. Guilt, regret, sorrow, resignation and, perhaps most of all, relief.

She was calm now, her breathing no longer shaky and fast, but deep and controlled.

She never thought that she would be ready for it, but there she was, ready to complete whatever the Red Room had started.

Years ago, there had been a murder.

The kind of murder where nobody dies.

The murder of the little red haired girl with the pigtails and yellow ribbons.

Here in the dark alley, faced with death, is where her body lies, but she's not inside.

She draws in another deep breath, and her forehead smooths itself again as the frowns disappear.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. I've lost, and I am ready to end it all. _

Yet the pain never came, the bright light that people had said would appear before her never came.

Is it over? Maybe she'd gone to hell instead. That was highly possible too.

She could feel the corner of her lips turning upwards. It didn't matter if she was in hell or heaven. She was free now.

_No. _

What? Her eyes shot open.

_You don't have to live like that. You have a choice, you know. _

The bow and arrow were lowered now, and every bone in her body was telling her to either fight back or to make her escape then. She was the Black Widow after all, and she had the honour of Mother Russia to fight for.

But then, she looked into the eyes of the man with the bow and arrow, the man who had held her life and the power to end it in his hands, but had chosen not to.

He had blue eyes.

Eyes so blue, as blue as…

She slowly lifted her hand to her neck and pulled out Mama's ring, clutching it to her chest over the tiny pocket she kept the torn photo of Papa and Mama in.

Sapphire blue.

As she continued to look into the stranger's eyes, she felt it. The few memories she had left of Mama, Papa and the little girl with the pigtails came rushing back to her, the few memories that the Red Room hadn't ripped away from her with such cruelty.

_Come with me, join us, you could live. _

She cocked her head in curiosity. Live?

_You could start anew, be the person you want to be, make your own choices. _

She blinked, considering his words, slowly making sense of what the man with the sapphire blue eyes was saying.

_You could be free. _

Her head started to spin. She hadn't notice the continuous flow of blood from both her injuries, and it was starting to take a toll on her body.

_I could be free, _her voice was almost too low, but she knew the archer who held his face mere centimeters from hers would hear her, _from what? And for what? _

Black spots were appearing in her vision, and she could feel her grip on Mama's ring loosening.

_Hey, stay awake for me, _the man's voice was getting louder as he frantically attempted to shake the consciousness into her. _Hey!_

_Answer me. _She almost couldn't recognize the voice that sounded so tiny.

But the man hadn't heard her, and was instead shooting off rapidly into the device in his ear.

_Coulson, get the medics ready, NOW… No, no, I'm not hurt, I'm bringing her in, she'd lost a lot of blood… Yes I'm bringing her in… No, you don't understand, I know what it was like when you first got to me, I think she needs this too, she needs us… I don't care, I'm bringing the girl in. _

She'd realized in her weary state that this man before her had fought for her, but before she could ask the man about the many unanswered questions, she felt the light fading away.

_My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. I could be alive, I could live, I could be…_

Darkness took over her.

… _free._

* * *

**Note- **


	8. Chapter 7 - A Dream To Live

**There Was A Little Girl, Chapter 7- A Dream To Live (Clint Barton You Idiot II) **

_Start at the beginning, finish at the end  
Everything you'll tell them is true, nothing is pretend  
But when you long to come running back, remember  
This is now, that was then  
Yesterday will find you, where you've been before  
Let the past remind you what's done  
Now look for something more  
There's a place I can almost see before us  
Never "if", only "when"  
Start another story, tell it as you go  
Make a happy ending, or sad  
Tell it how you know  
Just remember a day gone by is never really gone  
If your tale goes on  
If your tale goes…_

_- Start Another Story, Emilie Autumn_

She remembers dreaming.

She had dreamt about Papa and Mama, about being that little girl with the pigtails.

She had dreamt about the best day of her life. She was once again clutching the cone of vanilla ice-cream in her tiny hands, seated between her parents, and they all had smiles on their faces.

She could hear the laughter of Papa and Mama, and her very own giggles.

She could taste the cold vanilla as she licked the ice-cream once again.

_Come on Natalia, say it again, let Papa and Mama hear you say it again. _Mama tickled her, making her laugh and giggle.

_Natalia Alianovna Romanova. My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. _She squealed trying to avoid Mama's hands as she reached to tickle her again.

Mama had laughed, and Papa smiled along with her as they enjoyed the ice-cream.

They were happy.

And they were a family.

She had a family.

She was happy.

The scene faded away, and she was pulled into darkness.

* * *

She remembers the darkness that didn't go away.

All around her, emptiness, nothing.

It reminded her of the dark room she was once shut in by the wardens at the Red Room.

The darkness had threatened to drive her mad then. It wasn't any different this time.

She remembered what she had done then to hold on to her sanity, to hold on to herself. Maybe it would work now.

She closed her eyes and started her chant.

_My name is Na…_

_You killed me, didn't you? _

Her eyes shot open and she whipped her head around.

She recognized that voice.

_You killed my father too. _

There was a girl, she had pigtails too.

Kseniya. Drakov's daughter. She remembered.

_Why? _

This voice was different, it was someone else.

_I tried to help you_.

It was the man she encountered in São Paulo, and his voice was accusing.

She started to feel the guilt seeping into her.

_I had a family! You ruined them. _

The sick man from the hospital appeared on her right.

_They didn't even have a recognizable body to mourn. _

His body started to blacken then, as an unseen fire ate away at him.

She backed away, but not before bumping in yet another body.

_Did you? Did you do this to me? _

A bloodied body, advancing towards her.

_What did I do to deserve this? _

A man with a hole in his chest, left from a bullet she once shot.

_Do you even remember us? _

An old man, with blood slowly seeping through his shirt.

Her chest tightened as the bodies around her closed in on her.

She closed her eyes to escape the nightmare that approached her, but was only met by memories of how she had once ended the lives of each and every one of the bodies that were now looking at her accusingly.

_Stop. _

She looked up.

_Papa? _

The bodies now formed a circle, with her curled into a ball in the middle.

With her in the circle on either side of her were Papa and Mama.

Mama reached a hand out, and she took it. It was as soft and gentle as she remembered.

She slowly stood up.

_Papa? Mama? _Her voice was barely a whisper, but it held the same desperate hope as it did the day she screamed for them in the yard of their destroyed home.

_After so many years of killing. _She hadn't been prepared for the pain in she could clearly see in Mama's eyes.

_This wasn't who we wanted her to be. _Papa's eyes only mirrored the agony in Mama's.

_Natalia Alianovna Romanova. Is that you? _Mama's hair was just like she remembered. .

_It was the name we gave to the little girl that was our daughter. _Papa couldn't look her in the eye anymore, avoiding her green eyes that were an exact copy of his own.

_Is that still your name? _Mama shook her head, her own fiery red hair just brushing her shoulders.

_We don't recognize her. _Papa had his head down now, giving her a perfect view of his perpetually curly hair.

_We don't recognize you. _A tear rolled down Mama's cheek.

_Did she kill?_ Papa finally raised her head.

_Did you feel? _Mama took a step towards her.

_Did she die?_ Papa's voice cracked.

_Did you live? _Mama's voice softened.

Did she?

_I'm sorry._ She'd whispered.

A disappointment.

She was the best.

She was the Black Widow.

But…

She killed, she couldn't feel, she didn't let herself feel. The little girl died, and she hadn't lived.

At all.

Yes, she was the Black Widow.

Yes, she was the best.

Did it mean anything?

Was that what she wanted?

Was that all she could be?

_But was it your choice? _

She whirled around, now looking at the fourth figure standing in the circle formed by the now motionless sea of bodies.

The man with his bow and quiver slung across his back gestured towards the people around him.

_Was any of this your choice? _

His eyes were deep.

_Was it your choice to make when they brought you to the Red Room? _

His eyes were gentle.

_Was it your choice to make when they made it your nature to kill? _

His eyes were kind.

_Was it your choice to make when they tore you away from who you are? _

His eyes were understanding.

_Was it all your choice, when all you could do was to let them think for you? _

His eyes were forgiving.

_You regret your past. _

His eyes were knowing.

_But you have a future. _

His eyes were blue.

_And you have a choice. _

They were sapphire blue.

_A choice to be free. _

The bodies faded, Papa and Mama faded.

_You could be free. _

He faded.

Darkness took over.

But it wasn't cold anymore.

It wasn't empty anymore.

* * *

She remembers opening her eyes for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

She was in a white room, and her limbs were strapped down to metal bars on her sides.

She had panicked, not knowing where she was.

Had the Red Room found her?

Had she been brought back to the white room where she had been taken apart? Where so much of herself had been taken away from her?

She pulled against the restrains that were once again too strong for her, and immediately winced as pain shot through her back and her calf.

How did…

Images of arrows flickered through her mind.

Someone was trying to kill her?

She had been in an alley, it was dark.

Did she run into trouble?

There was a man, he had a bow and a quiver of arrows.

The memory was coming back to her now.

He had sapphire blue eyes.

He'd spared her life.

He'd said she could be free.

But he hadn't answered her questions.

Where was she?

The door had creaked open then, allowing a man to enter. It was him.

_You're awake, finally. _He grinned like a little boy and came to stand by her bed. _How're you feeling? _

She stared at him, confused as to how she was supposed to answer.

_You uh… You must be wondering where this is. You're at S.H.I.E.L.D.. Stands for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. A mouthful, I know. _

She continued to keep a straight face as he rambled on.

_I spoke to the people up there, my uh… superiors, about bringing you in. There were a few… complications, but other than that, you should be fine, though I'm supposed to be responsible for you from now on. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but don't worry, they're all ridiculous about rules here. _

Superiors? Rules? Where was this place? Was it like the Red Room? Was it worse?

He must have noticed the look she had on her face.

_Hey relax, we're not like where you came from. You get to choose what you want to do here, you're more or less free. _

She'd heard those words before.

_Here, let me help you up. _

He unbuckled the straps around her limbs, freeing her of the restraints. She'd immediately sprung off, ignoring the pain in her back and leg, and put the bed between her and the man.

The man had raised his hands then, showing her that he meant her no harm.

For a while, they'd remained in that position, with her warily taking him in, and him waiting for her to accept his gesture of peace.

_Who are you. _She'd eventually broken the silence with a low and dangerous voice.

_Clint Barton. _He slowly lowered his hands and took a step closer to the bed.

_You didn't answer my question. _

His brows furrowed then. _I just did, I told you, my name is…_

_You said I could be free. From what? And for what? _

Comprehension dawned his face. _Oh, that. Well… _

He'd taken a deep breath and inserted his hands into his pocket.

_From your past. So you could live a life. _

She eyed the forlorn man rocking on the balls of his feet before her.

_What do you know about me? _

_Just enough to know that's exactly what you need, to be free. _

Silence had befallen the room again.

_Thank you, Clint Barton. _

_What? _He looked up, drawn from his own deep thoughts.

_You spared my life. _

_Oh uhm, you're welcome, I guess. _

_Why? _

_I uh… _He fumbled, clearing his throat. She could see his hesitation as he looked around, trying to find an answer. _I guess I just felt like it. _

Silence.

She knew it wasn't the reason, and she knew he did too, but none of them spoke.

_I should leave. You should rest too, sorry about the arrows, _he said abruptly, before turning to leave the room.

_Wait. _Her voice rang out in the otherwise silent room.

_Yeah? _He'd looked over his shoulder, at her.

_My name is Nata… _She stopped.

_I think I already know, remember? I was sent to…_

_No. Wait. _

She sat down on the bed, her back facing the man. It was a pretty stupid thing to do, considering she barely knew him, but somehow, she knew she was safe.

Moments later, she felt the bed dip slightly as the man sat on the other side of it.

_You name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova? _

It was a walk down memory lane. Everything Natalia Alianovna Romanova had done, as the little girl with pigtails, as the killer-in-training in the Red Room, as the Black Widow.

_It was the name we gave to the little girl that was our daughter. _Papa had said that in the dream. _We don't recognize her. _

_Neither do I. _She closed her eyes, her thoughts a huge mess. Can she? Can she let go of it? She could let go of Natalia Alianovna Romanova. She'd be letting go of the little girl in pigtails, but she'd be letting go of the soulless and heartless killer. Was it worth it? Could she do it? Was that what she needed?

_Natasha Romanoff. Does that sound American enough? _She straightened her back, testing the words on her mouth.

He considered the name. _Yeah, I suppose so, why? _

She bit her lip. It was now her turn to hesitate. _Your pronunciation was horrible. _

_Yeah well your English reeks of Russian. _The man smirks as he jumps up from the bed, the earlier tension leaving the two.

_No it doesn't. _She lifts her chin indignantly.

_Whatever you say, _he walked to the door with the same skip in his step as when he first entered.

_My name is Natasha Romanoff. _She watched as his hand rested on the door knob.

_Well Natasha, why don't you take a rest, and I'll return with some ice-cream. The food here sucks, trust me, you'll need it. _He wrinkled his nose at her before swinging the door open and leaving her alone in the ward.

Except this time, she hadn't felt lonely anymore as the corners of her lips lifted ever so slightly at the promise of ice-cream.

Maybe Clint Barton was right. Maybe she could live a life. Maybe she could still be that little girl.

She remembers hoping that he'd bring vanilla.

He did.


	9. Chapter 8- (Don't) Let Me Go

**There Was A Little Girl, Chapter 8- (Don't) Let Me Go (Budapest)**

_And I demand  
You put my heart back in my hand  
And wipe it clean  
From the mess you made of me  
And I require  
You make me free from this desire  
And when you leave, I'd better be the innocent  
I used to be_

_- I Want My Innoncence Back, Emilie Autumn_

All these years, she has fiercely kept them locked up, safely away.

No one can see them, no one can feel them.

No one can even sense them, let alone touch them.

Not even her.

And eventually, everyone simply forgot.

They forgot that they were supposed to be innate part of her, just like they were of everyone else.

Sometimes, even she did.

She likes to think that she does it because the Red Room was right about one thing, that _they_ are redundant.

She pushes away the thought that it may be because she needs it.

It is for the best, she tells herself.

She knows it isn't.

But she ignores that, and she ignores _them_.

She doesn't think about how she may not be able to live with herself if she doesn't.

She doesn't think about how if she doesn't, even for just one second, everything would crumble around her.

She would crumble.

Every single wall she has built around herself to protect herself.

Every single gate to the gallons of tears she has held back over the years.

Every single barrier erected to keep the pain at bay.

They will crumble.

Every single bit of her shield.

Every single bit of her armor.

Every single bit of… her.

She. Will. Crumble.

_They _will make her crumble.

Shatter.

Bits and pieces.

Scattered.

Littered.

Abandoned.

Lost.

Gone.

And then forgotten.

It scares her.

_They _scare her, so so much.

And so she had tucked them away, ever so carefully, and ever so forcefully, strictly, viciously.

They call her emotionless, without emotion.

She wished, if only that were true.

_They _will ruin her.

_Emotions_ will ruin her.

How ironic, that these emotions will tear her down without hesitation, cruelly, callously.

She'd banished them for a reason.

And there they remained, under lock and key.

A key hidden so long ago, hidden so skillfully, hidden with so much resolve.

She didn't think anyone would find it.

She didn't think anyone would bother.

She didn't think anyone would care.

But that was before.

That was before.

* * *

Bullets flew past them as they ducked behind a huge garbage bin just large enough to provide cover for the both of them.

They never would have expected this, or maybe she would have, if only she hadn't been so adamant on pushing it out of her mind.

Her past has caught up with her, in the form of Yelena Belova.

Maybe she should have finished her off back then.

The thought did cross her mind.

_Give it up, Natasha! The Red Room always gets what they want, and they want you. _

Gunshots and profanities in the language of her motherland rang through the air, narrowly missing both her and Clint as they took turns trying to get a shot at the girl who could only wish to be the Black Widow.

Yelena was good, but not good enough.

Not as good as _she _was_._

She pulled the trigger yet again, without needing so much as a second to take aim before taking cover behind the bin again.

The shriek of pain that resounded through the alley only indicated her success in incapacitating the girl from her past.

She made her way towards the crouched figure and kicked the dropped weapon out of reach.

_Why are you here. _

Her voice shakes as she faces a living reminder of who she used to be.

Clint takes a heavy step forward.

His presence calms her.

_The Red Room wants you back. You were a mistake. _

Yelena grits her teeth, the amount of red staining the floor doesn't shake her.

Clint clenches his fist.

Not from the anger stirred by the words of the blonde girl before him, but by his memories.

Memories of a red-headed girl, cornered in an alley.

A girl who wasn't ready to die, but would much rather do so than to live the only life she had grown to know.

_Natalia Alianovna Romanova, the Red Room is ready to correct their mistake. They will remake you, or they will kill you. _

The blonde girl shakes with bitter laughter as she clutches at the gaping injury that isn't the cause of the pain she feels.

_You were made to hunt, hurt, kill, that's the only thing you're good for. You actually thought you could live as a human being? _

She spits out the words as though they were venom.

_Pathetic mistake the Red Room made. I should have been the Black Widow, I would have made Mother Russia glorious instead of being a vile traitor. You're pathetic. What are you to them? They should have killed you. He should have just killed you. _

Her head snapped back as Clint's foot connects with her chin.

Her labored breathing is now pained and slow as her lids lower.

It doesn't take long before she breathes her final words.

_Mama. _

Natasha doesn't speak.

The silence of the night washes over them, yet the deafening words of Yelena ricocheted through her mind.

Natasha doesn't speak.

* * *

Clint burst in.

As the bedroom door swung open violently to reveal the scene before him, a glass whizzed past his face and shattered into bits behind him against the polished mahogany walls of the luxurious hotel suite.

_Don't even. _Her voice was menacing.

_Get out. _Her voice was dangerous.

_Leave me… _Her voice was murderous.

She tightened her grip around the bottle of alcohol she had in her hand, like it would help her tighten her hold on the reigns of her feelings… It didn't.

…_alone. _Her voice was that of a child, tiny, small, heart-breaking.

That was when she let the bottle fall to the glossy marble tiles.

_Why?_

She cried out in desperation.

_This usually works. _

She glanced wistfully at the remains of the bottles she had downed.

_Why isn't it working? Why? _

_Tash, stop you're hurting yourself. Forget what she said, c'mon Tash stop, I promi…_

She whipped her head in his direction.

_You promise? What do you promise? That everything will be okay? _

He flinched from her piercing glare, from the venom in her voice.

_That everything will be fine? That I can do this? Live? _

She wrapped her arms around her as she let her form fall slack against the bed.

_I'm a killing machine, Clint. I can't do this, I was made to kill. _

She pulled her legs to her shivering body and rested her chin on her knees.

His eyes never left her visage as her mouth opened yet again.

_I feel. _

His brows furrowed. He'd never heard a voice so broken, so torn, so full of hurt and pain.

_I feel and all I feel is pain. _

He started towards her.

_No Tash, it's okay, you don't have to, just let it go, just…_

_No don't. _He stopped in his tracks. _Don't. _

He'd rarely seen her eyes give away any bit of her, and yet…

And yet there she was, with eyes deep with sorrow, searching his face for an answer to the haunting thoughts in her mind.

_You honestly think I can just forget it all? You honestly think that I… _Her face contorted with sadness. _That I don't feel a thing? _

She shook her head. _I do. I do so much, and it hurts. It hurts me and I don't know how to stop it. _

She clutches her head. _I can't forget it, Clint. It just keeps coming back, I can't…_

His heart clenches as though he could feel all of her pain.

_Let it out, Tash, just let it all out tonight._

She doesn't answer him as her sobs wreck through her body even harder.

He lowered himself next to her.

Neither of them spoke; their presence was enough comfort for one another.

Her cries finally quietened as fatigue took over her.

When he awakes, she's already left the room.

She doesn't speak of the day before, he doesn't ask.


End file.
